


The Road

by Lucifreta



Category: God Bless America (2011)
Genre: Adventure, Gen, God Bless America - Freeform, LOTS of original scenes, Lots of Murder, Multi, Murder, New character in place of Roxy, Not fully romantic, Not self insert, Other, Rewrite of original, Satire, Sexual Tension, Some scenes from film, Touching, but in a good way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 18:58:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13301178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucifreta/pseuds/Lucifreta
Summary: Frank Murdoch has had it up to here. He's had it with the hate speech and the off-color jokes. He's had it with celebrity worship and the general unkindness of America. The country is going down the toilet and Frank is pretty sure it can't get any worse until he loses his job to a phony harassment claim and receives a suspicious notice from an oncologist. His neighbors are about to drive him over the edge and he can't seem to disengage himself from his ex-wife and her daughter. Just when it seems like suicide might be the only solution, he takes off across the US to put his gun to better use. Then he meets Sunday, a beautiful but equally fed-up teenager who is eager and willing to rain hell down upon the country alongside him.





	1. Chapter 1: The Downward Spiral

**Author's Note:**

> This is a reworking of the original film, however, the bulk of the story is totally original. I did keep some lines and scenes from the film, so you might recognize those, but I surprised myself with how creative I was able to get with this. One major change you'll notice is the absence of Roxy, who I've replaced with Sunday. 
> 
> Sunday's problem is nothing like Roxy's and that's why I ditched Roxy. I thought her excuse for being how she was was illegitimate and dumb. So I gave Sunday a problem that I feel like very few people recognize: that sometimes being beautiful is a curse. 
> 
> Frank, I kept primarily the same; maybe a little difference found its way in. 
> 
> Their relationship is worlds apart from the film, but I steered away from actual, real romance. But they will have a more physical proximity to one another. They're humans after all. 
> 
> The longer this goes on, the better it gets in my view. I've been working on it on and off for years so my writing has changed as it's progressed. 
> 
> This story is also on Wattpad.

Channel thirteen, a loud and inappropriate sales pitch for a farting ring tone. Channel fourteen, a gay bashing televangelist and his rally of self-righteous bigots. Channel fifteen, a blaring declaration of political failure Barack Obama's latest misguided attempts to right the ruin of our "third world economic status." Sixteen: a new episode if Baby Mommaz in which a sixteen year old held her wailing bastard child and let fly every censored curse word there was at a filthy obese redneck male.

Frank sighed and watched through watery red eyes.

You're behind three payments asshole! I can't work full time with the baby!" she screamed.

"So get off your ass and hire a nanny." The swine-human hybrid chugged his beer. 

"I can't hire a nanny till you pay up dipshit!"

The misfortune the child faced at the hands to these two ill-considerate, uneducated, underemployed fools was staggering. But the fact that they were filmed, paid and aired with the label "entertainment" was absolutely soul crushing. He didn't know why he bothered watching TV anymore. No one had anything articulate to say. They were legitimately concerned about all the wrong things. There was enough hate, political turmoil, and narcissism to frighten the Devil away. 

Frank flipped the television off and sat motionless in the dark. In the midst of all the yelling and flashing and farting his migraine had flared up. He reached for the bottle of aspirin sitting on the end table and gave it a jiggle. Empty. He was due to work in one hour and even if he showered, dressed and skipped coffee there wouldn't be enough time to pick any up. So shower he did, then gathered his bag and headed to the parking lot.

The way the sun glinted off the yellow Camaro made him wince in pain. It was a great car, but impractical for all his needs. Gave off the impression he was enduring some sort of pathetic midlife crisis and wanted to express just how jilted he felt. Nope. Frank walked passed it and climbed into his 1989 Ford Piece of Shit. The mere sight of it was a constant reminder that he was due for a raise.

As it choked and sputtered through the streets of Syracuse Frank tried not to think of those eleven faithful years at the office and how it seemed he was financially no further ahead than he had been eleven years earlier. Actually, he had been fairly well-off six years ago before the divorce became final. But when all was said and done it was as though all his support had become about as supportive as a house of cards. And every day more was a test of its strength.

He rolled to a halt at the command of the traffic light. He stared at it and listened to the radio he hadn't realized was on. 

"...if he plays that good with only one testicle maybe the whole team should get cancer!" Frank quickly flipped the channel, disgusted.

"...I think we should build a fence! A big square fence and put all the gays and the lesbians and the homosexuals in it and just leave 'em there. And you know what?! Eventually, they'd all die out. You know why?! 'Cause they can't reproduce--"

Frank flipped off the radio with some force. This from the man who sold himself as today's messenger of God. He called himself Reverend Michael Scott ("reverend" was a sort of punchline) and he hosted a radio sermon that promoted everything from racism to, now, concentration camps run by Nazis dressed in their Sunday best. Unfortunately, Reverend Scott's ratings weren't exactly suffering. It was becoming fashionable to call his station your place of worship, where the only liberal thing was the dress code. 

"Social Darwinism," Frank murmured. 

He whipped into a distant parking space, not bothering to lock his doors, and traipsed inside. He was greeted by seizure-inducing fluorescent lighting and the hot papery scent of overworked printers. That smell always made him itch. 

"Frank!"

He stopped and spun around slowly to avoid whacking anyone with his briefcase. The receptionist, Susan, was trotting toward him, her Stilettos clacking loudly on the tile floor. Frank tried to keep his ever-growing grin professional. 

"Hi," she said, a little out of breath. The smile on her face was bright and flirtatious. When she spoke to him, she twirled the tips of her short blond hair. 

He stuttered a little. "Hi, Susan." Several seconds passed between them filled with nothing but crooked smiles and her nervous laughter. They shared hellos and goodbyes most days, and their conversations consisted of little more than this. He didn't care. These minute-long encounters were the only good thing he had going at the moment and there was no better incentive besides a paycheck to get him into work. 

"Listen I don't want to keep you long. Mr. Sullivan said to send you to his office as soon as I saw you."

"Great. Just what I need first thing in the morning, huh?"

She laughed a little harder than necessary. "Yeah. I'm sure it'll be fine though."

Yeah. So, did you find the plane tickets you were looking for? That site I told you about--"

"Yep. Thanks for that." Her lipstick slathered mouth sealed shut like a plastic bag. With the overwhelming impression that their meeting was coming to a close, Frank gave her one last bashful smile and meandered over to his desk where he discovered he hadn't beat his cubical mate, Brian--the prepubescent little prick. Frank set his bag down in silence, praying that the air around him was a repellent one. But it never was. 

"Hey, Frank."

"Hey, Brian," he deadpanned. Brian swiveled around in his chair and was met with the back of Frank's head. 

"Jeez, did you see Susan this morning? Her tits must've got a good night's sleep, huh?"

"Actually I was a little busy talking to her face. Y'know since she's a human being and not a college dorm poster." Brian ignored this.

"Hey, did you catch the Victor Macy show last night? He had a chimp in a dress crushing beer cans on its forehead." Brian laughed. It was the laugh Frank imagined one would hear while being mocked and ridiculed in Hell. "It was hilarious."

"Yeah. Sounds like a riot. I don't watch that show."

"Well, you must've seen it. Or at least heard about it. They ran the clip on Good Day New York and Reverend Scott mentioned it on his show this morning."

"Hm." Please! Anything but that.

"Ohhh... Not too religious are you Frank?" he said in a downward tone. Frank was on his last nerve with this little ass wipe prying into his life and then sneering down his snot nose at it. The only way to be less religious than Frank was to be like ninety percent of the population in Syracuse and tune in. But he wasn't going to give Brian the satisfaction.

"No. I am religious," Frank swiveled to the side and looked over his shoulder. "And that's why I don't listen to that hate monger."

Brian snorted. "So what are you? One of those holier-than-thous? Like, if you're not a member of my church then you're not a member of God's church? 'Cause you know that's what America is all about. Freedom of speech and freedom of religion. America was founded because of religious persecution." He was proud of himself to be sure, but Frank only wanted to spit. 

"I think Americans are misinterpreting exactly what freedom of speech means." Swiveling in his chair, Frank could feel his temperature rising. His migraine twisted like a screw in his skull. "It doesn't mean open your trap with a blatant disregard for the self-esteem of others. It doesn't mean bashing minorities to the point of teen suicide or-or using it to smother the opinions of people who are actually right. 

"And as for the founding of our nation...we've cultivated a society built on persecution which we take and spread over the world like it's our one true export." Frank was on a downhill slide now. It would be hard to stop, but it felt so liberating. He wasn't aware that Brian was gawping, he wasn't aware that his tone had risen to a near yell, but he was aware that, for once, he was being heard. "We call ourselves a free country but there's only freedom if you adhere to the one size fits all standard set by those Social Darwinists we call the media. And if you had really been listening this morning you'd have realized we aren't any better than Nazi Germany or Afghanistan." He leaned toward Brian emphatically. "We are a civilization who is no longer interested in being civilized."

Brian stared.

Probably he was just caught off guard by an intelligent statement. Frank felt strangely relieved, and he wanted to keep it that way. Picking up his bag, he remembered he was due in Mr. Sullivan's office ten minutes ago. When he reached the plain wooden door bearing his boss's name on a gold plaque, it swung open before he could raise his fist to knock. 

"Frank. Come in."

It was difficult to tell whether one should be worried with Mr. Sullivan; he was rather stoic in all situations. Frank felt he had no cause to be worried. His attendance record was impeccable, he was always polite (disregarding his most recent encounter), and never found himself distracted by Facebook or that infernal Tweeter that constantly had someone under fire. 

Mr. Sullivan offered him a seat, then sat down himself and flipped open a folder on his desk. When he had finished reviewing the contents he glanced speculatively at Frank from beneath his brow. 

"Frank...did you send Susan flowers to her home?"

"Uh...yeah. I did. Last Friday I think." Mr. Sullivan folded his hands. From across the vast expanse of synthetic wood, he considered Frank in the same manner a counselor might size up a troubled juvenile. And it was beginning to make him squirm. His toes curled in his shoes. 

"Whyyy?"

"Well, she came down with the flu and missed two days of work so...I thought it'd make her feel better. I-I would have waited till she felt well enough to come back but by then it would have seemed silly. And I didn't want to embarrass her at the office," he explained with a bashful smile. 

"I see. And...how did you get her address?"

Suddenly, Frank didn't feel so confident. He had taken the liberty of sending a sick coworker some flowers and a get well card. Could his motive really be so unclear?

"I...checked the phone book." A lie. He had checked her records, a violation that superiors saw as spitting and shitting on company policy. A beat of silence endured, during which Mr. Sullivan's eyes fell in what was clearly disappointment. 

"Let's cut to the chase. And this isn't easy for me, I want you to know that. You've been a wonderful asset to this company, a real workhorse. But...I'm going to have to let you go."

Frank's stomach dropped with an echo. Fired? For sending flowers to Susan, the sweet flirtatious receptionist with whom he shared fleeting glances every morning? Who he occasionally bought peanut M&Ms for at the vending machine? 

"Wha-- no. No, this is just a misunderstanding." Frank got to his feet and stepped toward the door. "Let me go talk to her--" Mr. Sullivan lept out of his chair and wedged himself between Frank and the door.

"I can't let you do that Frank. Look...I know you understand what this is about, so don't make me spell it out. I'm sorry, but Susan doesn't feel safe while you remain employed here."

"While I'm emp--while I!--Sir..." Desperation overcame him. This harassment complaint had him over the moon. How could Susan possibly feel this way when she seemed so interested? "I've been here for...eleven years...Eleven! I don't mean to throw people under the bus here or tell you how to do your job but you might want to pay a visit to Brian and a bunch of the other greenhorns. Talk about sexual harassment!"

Mr. Sullivan gripped him firmly by the shoulder and held out his other hand.

"I'm just taking it case by case, son. If you ever need a recommendation..." Frank mustered all the dignity that remained in him and shook his former boss's hand. 

A single small box was spacious enough to fit all his belongings in and he was grateful. As he carted it down the hall it hardly betrayed him in his newly acquired unemployment. As he swept past the front desk, he avoided Susan's eye and they said nothing to one another. Despite the hulking desire to put his fist through the decorative glass wall surrounding her desk and totally unload. He wanted to leave here with his image intact, providing zero proof for the claims stacked against him. All he had to do, he told himself, was hold that pose until he was out the door.


	2. Enter the Gun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You will probably notice everything is very consistent with the film so far, and it will be for a little bit longer, but very soon I'll be straying from the template, so keep the faith. Enjoy! Let me know in the next few chapters what you think (it spurs my will to create).

The phone was ringing its fifth ring and Frank was about to hang up. Sometimes his ex-wife answered, but usually she didn't, making him feel like a joke. 

"Hello?" 

"Hey," said Frank, trying not to sound downtrodden right off the bat.

"How's it going? I was just about to call you but something came up. Ava's sick. She's already missed two days of school."

"Oh, well...do I need to come up there? I could take her to the doctor while you're at work, it's no trouble."

"No. Frank. It's not...she's not your responsibility." 

Which translated to, she's not your daughter, she's mine. It stung quite a bit. Ava wasn't Franks, but he had liked her a lot. Had done everything he could think of to fill the paternal position she was in need of. He wondered why Grace bothered telling him about Ava at all.

"Okay."

"And besides. I sort of...quit my job. Aaron got a promotion at work and I thought it would be a good opportunity to take some time for myself."

"Oh yeah," Frank said bitterly. "How is little ass kiss Aaron?"

"Ugh. He's great. I know how much you care." There was a dim commotion on the other end of the line that sounded like drawers shutting. He knew the tiny voice he heard in the background was Ava's, and he wished he hadn't heard it at all. 

"Oh. Listen, Frank. Um....Aaron and I are...we're getting married."

In an attempt to mask the bile that was pooling in his stomach, Frank kept his voice level and his gait consistent, concentrating on the burn in his calves as he walked too fast. 

"Well, tell Aaron...when he's down there to smell my balls." 

"That's mature," she spat. "I just want to be a family for once."

"And what was I? A roommate?"

"We've started doing Friday game nights and every Sunday morning we listen to Reverend Scott." Frank was floored. His little Ava's brain was being soiled.

"Grace! That man is the Antichrist! Dammit! There's a perfectly normal church six blocks from the house, take her there. It has nuns!"

"Frank I don't need to hear this, okay. It's a start for us."

He was willing to stow it. For now. But only because he was in a bad enough mood as it was and his migraine was surging. "Hey, uh...you won't believe what happened today--"

"Oh no! Ava...Aaron help her, she spilled her drink. Frank, I gotta go. Ava's made a mess and the rolls are burning. I'll call you later." 

The click that followed blew a hole through the middle of him and the wind was whistling through it. Frank had never felt so alone, so cut off in his entire life. It was occurring to him just how empty and menial his life had become. And as he went about his evening routine for another night of unsuccessful sleep attempts, he realized just why his superficial relationship to Susan had meant so much to him. It was the closest thing he had to any sort of intimate relationship. There were no ties binding him to his ex-wife, except for a desire to be Ava's father. But he was not and never would be thanks to Grace. 

Frank rifled through the mail he'd tossed onto the counter that morning, needing the distraction more than anything. Bills, bills, junk mail, a letter addressed to the neighbors, and...

An envelope from an oncologist he didn't recognize. It was stamped Open Immediately. Frank stared at it. Three weeks ago, he'd visited the doctor about his chronic migraines. They took some scans, blinded him with a flashlight, and he was out. He had never been notified that his case was being referred to an oncologist. Those people didn't waste precious paper doling false alarms.

Opening it would be redundant and pointless. Folding up the envelope and stuffing it into his wallet, he collapsed onto the couch. The TV flashed silently into the darkness. He could plainly hear the neighbors bickering loudly, only it wasn't directed at one another. They were bickering with the TV. Swarming like sharks over the latest bloody dump of celebrity chum. 

"...and I looked him in the eye and I said, 'you're retarded' then I punched him right in the face." 

"Oh my God, what is wrong with Lindsay Lohan? She used to have so much potential..." 

He cringed, on the brink of tears. They would do this all night. It didn't matter how often he asked them to practice some common courtesy. They were incapable of comprehending that their actions affect other people.

And that baby.

Frank hated that baby. He hated that baby's fat, stupid face. He wondered if it only slept in the daytime when he was gone to work. All he knew was that every night in his bed was like trying to sleep during some nocturnal civil defense air raid siren that went off every fucking night like it was Pearl Harbor. 

It wailed and his brain tumor wailed with it. 

Frank couldn't take it. The loneliness, the tumor, the United States...

His house of cards was imploding. His thoughts wandered to the metal box hidden away under the exact spot where he currently sat, life in shambles. He groped beneath the couch until he felt its cold metallic exterior and brought it into his lap. There were several items inside: badges, his dog tags...but Frank was only interested in the largest item swathed in white cloth. The cloth fell away when he lifted it and there in his hand lay a tempting solution. The semi-automatic was heavier now than it had ever been during his years of service. He fished the magazine out of the box and clicked it into place with the butt of his hand.

All sounds faded away. As far as Frank was concerned, anything outside of his living room had become a white sheet of nonexistence. He could hear his heartbeat, strangely calm and rhythmic. He could feel the shrinkage and expansion of his working lungs. Every nerve lept into action until he was aware of every finger, toe, arm, leg, tingle, and itch. But his mind remained a void. And it was the most restful that he had felt in years. 

The nose of the gun slide into his mouth until it connected with the palette. It was tangy and greasy on his tongue. And for the longest time, Frank just sat there, breathing, marveling at death's close proximity, his nearness to the edge of existence. He'd never experienced anything so surreal. Would he feel it before he went? There would be a mess to be sure, but on the upside, he wouldn't have to lay there long; the gunshot would more than likely wake up everyone in his building. Maybe he should leave a note implicating those who would never know just how involved they were. Say that he hadn't wanted to disembark from stepfatherhood; he hadn't wanted to lose his job--no matter how much he hated it--to some airhead. He hadn't wanted to find out about his tumor from a cold, faceless envelope. And he did not want to be part of a country so exalting of holy conmen, disparaging remarks, and all around unkindness. 

For whatever reason, his eyes flicked to a piece of paper lying on the coffee table. Perhaps to glimpse some part of reality, any part, one last time. He angled his head a few degrees to read what was written on it. The gun remained in his mouth. 

It was a receipt. 

A receipt from the florist on Second street, where he had purchased Susan's flowers. It declared that the bouquet had cost $24.83 and the card $3.14. 

Sensations and the rest of the world rushed back into the forefront of his consciousness like awakening from a sound slumber. He could hear the neighbors, very loud and clear. The last 24 hours flooded back into his brain, and at some point he must have sat on the remote because the TV was blaring. 

"...but the question is...are her tits real. I have all the respect in the world for natural tits but if you're gonna be seen in a dress like that--and on the red carpet no less--you need to flaunt what the surgeon gave you..."

Frank was a dying breed. But if he surrendered now, like this, then he might as well go on living. Let the modernist succubi bleed the rest of his soul out and be herded back into line. You don't want your life? We'll take it and put it to good use. Get up tomorrow, find a new job, call his ex-wife and come home for another sleepless night in front of mind-numbing commentary.

If he was going to die before the tumor said so, he didn't want it to be here in his sad sack apartment in the midst of an argument about tit authenticity. 

He could die happily, the last of his kind, in a world that was, by his hand, short an asshole or two.


	3. The Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is such a shorty, but it was meant to be very straightforward.

Frank's apartment door slammed behind him and he lumbered down the stairs, his bloated leather suitcase scraped and plodded along behind him. He didn't look back, didn't slow down, didn't think twice. Under the white glare of the parking lot lamps, he hoisted the suitcase up onto the edge of the truck and prepared for its landing into the bed. But a movement off to his left caught his attention.

A car was turning into the parking lot. Frank watched it glide smoothly in and out of rows of parked cars until it came to rest in an empty spot not too far from his truck. Even at night, the Camaro he eyed every chance he got shone a glorious bright yellow.

The driver's door opened and a man exited, but the car continued to idle, even as he slammed the door and jogged toward one of the buildings. Frank watched until the man had disappeared completely, and then a second more just to be sure he wasn't about to return after realizing what a fool he'd been to leave the engine running.

...Nothing...

Before Frank could process the action, he was swinging his suitcase into the trunk and speeding off in a streak of a yellow blur. Once he reached the main roads, he slowed to the speed limit. His heart was pounding from exhilaration, both from the nature of his endeavors and the well-oiled operation of the car he'd stolen. It wasn't too late. He could abandon the car and walk home. But the sting of today's humiliation and the memory of the burdensome news in his wallet carried him onward. He had so little time left to be miserable.

The question that remained was where to begin. He was already headed out of Syracuse by way of the interstate. No matter which way he considered it, it only made sense to start with what he knew first. Celebrities, talk show hosts, protesters... But they weren't the beginning; they had always been there. When had his sanity fallen, pride first, into this gladiator pit? First, he considered the divorce, but that had really just been a matter of irreconcilable differences. Grace had good maternal intentions and, as much as it pained him to say it, Aaron was a decent choice for a husband.

And a father.

Frank's problem lay nowhere near Ava. In fact, if he followed through with this, his separation from her would be complete. It was what Grace wanted and he needed.

His boss? It was only partially his fault. Someone had filed a harassment complaint against him, Frank, the least likely person in this day and age to harass anyone, especially a woman, sexually or otherwise. He had been so dejected and embarrassed having to march past her, life's work in hand.

A smile crept across his mouth.

He had his starting fire.

The siren who had lured him to his untimely doom would be in Virginia Beach in a couple of hours with her sister who was buying a house there. Frank had never dreamed that information would turn out to be so useful. From Frank's location, it was about a nine hour drive. Thankfully his adrenaline had chased off any traces of fatigue. He had a full tank, a full magazine, and a clear objective.

He rolled his urge back and forth in his mind. At first, he compared it to a nicotine craving, but after some thought, he realized, that wasn't it at all. He didn't have a bloodlust; he wasn't a psychopath who wanted to kill anything he stumbled across. This was much more meaningful. This was like......being horny. Witnessing a scene or hearing a phrase or seeing a person that set off all sorts of chemical responses in the brain, and, based on one's resources and willfulness, either acted on the impulse or did not.

It was going to be a long drive with only his thoughts to keep him company, and Frank had to beat back the urge to dial up Grace just for an excuse to talk out loud. No. He had nothing anymore but himself and the car. In a way, it was liberating, but it was a joy he could only share with himself.


	4. Sunday

He was entering the city now, coming into the outer suburban regions. It was fairly subdued compared to Syracuse. The downtown region was a small district of cityscape but the tamer city life radiated out around it. Frank was used to finding his way around unfamiliar cities, he lived in New York after all, but the arduous task of navigating an out of state where he'd never set foot in search of a single estate made him sigh. He needed a plan. He would find a cheap, filthy motel, check in, terminate the objective and wait out the hubbub there. But first, he needed to find a gas station, again.

Frank headed deeper into the suburbs, keeping watch for his target neighborhood, a suitable motel and a low key filling station. Unfortunately, at this hour the city was ripe with activity. He passed several stations that were simply too busy to risk. But a few more miles and Frank was delving into the sketchier part of town. It wasn't quite what most would call ghetto but it certainly wasn't 90210 either. There were fewer cars here, but more pedestrians. Frank pulled into the first gas station he saw and sidled up along one of the pumps. The place was practically deserted, and for good reason. There were bars on all the windows and it looked like prime robbing territory. He put the fuel on his card, filled up and pulled forward into a parking space. He was going on two days with this migraine, and maybe he would grab a coffee.

Those hideous bells clinked as he entered. Damn, he thought, not completely deserted. There was a greasy low-life sidled up to the counter having what appeared to be a one-way conversation based on the expression the clerk was wearing. Frank made his way discreetly to the back of the store and meandered through the aisles. Between his grazings, he cast furtive glances from beneath his eyelashes in the direction of the pair. The clerk was an attractive blonde who couldn't have been a minute over sixteen.

"No."

Frank looked up at the persistence in her voice, but the shady uncle type didn't seem fazed. Frank rather hoped this didn't call for an intervention; superhero wasn't exactly what he was going for. He concentrated on finding the aspirin. There was every type of period cramp and gas relief medication on the market, but good old-fashioned aspirin was, astoundingly, nowhere.

"I said no."

Why didn't this girl call the cops? But then again it was entirely possible this place had no under-the-counter alert system. What kind of freak leaves a teenager running a convenience store?

"Don't you have a playground to infiltrate?" She went back to thumbing through her magazine. Frank had to admit he was impressed with her resiliency. On that note, he was disgusted by the man's. Pedophiles were a good sized portion of everything that was wrong with humanity. How low must a grown man's self-esteem be to hit on children?

"Watch your tone, bitch."

Frank had heard enough. He dropped the bottle of Pamprin he'd been examining (by now he was desperate) and strolled to the counter. The girl behind the register gaped at him, but it was a long moment before the sleaze caught sight of him.

He gave Frank the up-down and smacked his gum. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Don't you think you're being a little rude?" Frank inquired. The guy snorted and glanced at the girl as if expecting her to sympathize.

"Look fuckhead this ain't your problem," he spat, turning his attention back to the girl. Frank looked at her himself; she was still staring, but it was with the kind of expression that said: "If you can do something about this...now's the time."

"Is this guy your problem?" he asked her.

"He's all of my problems."

"You're hitting on a child!" Frank exclaimed. "Don't you think there's something wrong with that?"

"Pussy's pussy, okay? Fuck you."

"No." Frank pulled the gun from his beneath his belt and aimed. "Fuck you."

He fired. The bullet set off a firecracker of blood that spurted all over Frank, the cashier, the counter and the rack of candy just below it. The man's body hit the tile floor, sliding backward several feet where it lay still. Just the power in the way the gun's hilt bucked in his hand, and the jarring echo in his ears was enough to lull him into a deep, cozy state of release. One down, one billion to go.

"You killed him," the girl observed, absently studying at the prone body.

With a sickening lurch, reality struck. How was he to explain this? He and the girl stared at one another in a silence so tense the air had become like cling wrap. He could not read her face but guessed that his own was likely one of, Oh shit.

He could run out the door, get in his car and speed off. She hadn't called the police on this literal deadbeat, she might not on him either. But by now, she'd had an excellent view of his face. And even if she didn't call, he couldn't stay here long; anyone on the block would have heard the shot.

In a second, the girl had thrown off her employee's vest and was jogging toward the door. His first impression was that she was making a mad dash to the nearest person without a gun. But when she fumbled the deadbolt shut and flipped the "open" sign to "closed," she whirled around to face him. The exhilarated smile on her face could have powered a small town.

"Hi!"

After a stupefied pause, Frank said, "Hhii?"

"I'm Sunday. What's your name?" She was visibly delighted. Frank was lost for words. His brow knitted as he studied her.

"Frank," he answered. The girl, Sunday, jeez what a name, thought Frank, grabbed his free hand and shook it vigorously.

"It's really excellent to meet you, Frank." Her smile vanished. "Now help me."

Sunday trotted over to where the bleeding body lay and bent down to grab the ankles. It was occurring to Frank that he needed more than anything now to be thankful. But he was so disarmed that he could hardly move. And when he didn't she peeked at him over her shoulder, her lengthy hair spilling forward until it brushed the floor.

"Let's go!" she snapped.

Her urgency roused Frank into action. He lodged the gun back into the security of his belt and hurried around her. He bent down and lifted the cumbersome torso by the armpits. Together, with much grunting and contorting of faces, they dragged the lifeless body into a storage room and dumped it roughly in the middle of the floor. The exit wound had left bloody streak on the tile that ran between Sunday's feet. The pair stood over the body, gazing down on it and panting.

"Ugly fuck isn't he?" said Sunday, crinkling her upturned nose. She kicked him over onto his face with her foot. Frank stole a furtive glance at her from the corner of his roving eye. Her face--youthful and pretty, with large blue eyes and short pixie nose--was as impassive as it was innocent. She bit the corner of her lip as she continued to eye the corpse.

"You uh...you're not--y'know..." She blinked at him. "Upset by this?"

Sunday snorted. "No. This is the best day I've had on this job so far." She turned back to the dead man and shook her head, lips tight, eyes far, far away. "I used to imagine this. I used to kill this guy a hundred ways day. I have to admit...compared to those fantasies..." she nodded, "the actual event was a little anticlimactic. But man, what a rush! Huh?"

Wasn't that the truth? Adrenaline was still coursing through Frank's body. He would have to remember this: his first shooting. Already he was hard at work memorializing it in his head. Creating a pictorial shrine around the sight of the body on the floor.

It was then that they heard the distant cry of a siren.

Frank looked at Sunday, and she at him, her blue eyes expanding.

"We have to get out of here," she declared.

"We?"

Sunday jerked back, her face pinching in disbelief. "Frank! You have to take me with you! I helped you hide the body! If I stay here what am I supposed to tell them?"

"What--you have the perfect alibi!" Franke exclaimed. "You say a lunatic with a gun ran in here and shot him and you didn't!"

"And then I tell them...what? That I watched, too helpless to call the cops, while you dragged him in here?"

The sirens were getting louder. She had a point; her story would be full of holes. Frank decided dealing with her was his best option. If he left her behind, she might turn him in just to even the score. His head pounded.

"Dammit! Fine! Go, go!" Sunday grinned and led the way as they bolted out of the store. Frank fumbled with the car lock until he managed to wrestle it open, all the while Sunday was slapping impatiently at the passenger side window. He jabbed the unlock and she wrenched the door open. The tires shrieked as they sped off, delving into the nearest neighborhood and weaving in and out of random streets to shake off anyone who might be tailing them.

"Woo-hoo!" she squealed, pumping up and down as she watched out of the back windshield.

"Hey! Hey! Stop it! Put your seat-belt on!" Frank scolded. She did, but with a mile wide grin and no breath.

"Thanks, Frank! Y'know, for not leaving me."

"Yeah...just...tell me how to get to a motel from here."

"Turn ri--"

"Cheap."

"Turn right at the next light. God...wow! You have no idea how long I've been waiting for that to happen! Oh, turn here. He came in almost every day just to buy cigarettes and try to get in my pants." Frank's ears were ringing. This wasn't how things were supposed to go. His first kill and he was already evading law enforcement, had already been seen by a witness, and that under-aged witness was now in the car with him, an accessory to murder.

"That's great. Where do I go now?"

"Right here." Frank slowed down abruptly, having been about to pass it, and turned in.

Cheap was what he had asked for and this place delivered. But it was perfect. He only needed a place to squat and figure things out. Maybe this girl could tell him how to get to Oak Hills. Getting rid of her would be another issue.

Frank unloaded his suitcase from the trunk and lugged it inside, Sunday trailed eagerly after him. Bringing her up with him felt all kinds of wrong but right now it was his only option. At the counter, he paid for a single bedroom and handed the clerk his card. She took it and eyed them both with unmasked suspicion, but ran the transaction through.

"Room 34 on the second floor and to the left. Pool's out back, checkout by noon tomorrow," she rattled, ready to hand the card and room key back to Frank.

"Thanks. We'll probably be out of here before then." Frank reached for the cards, but the clerk squinted and withdrew. Her eyes roved over his blood-spattered shirt, mouth poised to open, but the opportunity to speak never came. Sunday craned over the counter and snatched the cards from the clerk's hand.

"Thank you for your cooperation..." She glanced at the clerk's badge. "Ginger. Here you go, Dad." She offered the cards to Frank, who, wishing for no more attention to be drawn to them, grabbed them and took off for the stairs with Sunday in tote. Or at least, she was in tote until she decided Frank was moving far too slow and skipped ahead of him, her waist-length yellow hair flowing behind her like a shining flag of victory.

"You're welcome," she said.

"What?"

"You were about to let that bitch two-step all over you, but it's not your fault." She glanced back over her shoulder with a flip of her hair. "It's just your face. Makes you seem liable."

"Uh...yeah."

Their room was a garish collision of 1980s Miami art deco and what reminded Frank of the set of the Golden Girls. Sunday skipped across the room to the heavily draped windows and peered out. Not that he was listening, but from the bathroom, Frank thought he heard her scoff, "They're calling that a pool? I think we better stay here. The toilet might be bigger...and cleaner."

He closed the bathroom door and buried his face in his hands.

What. The. Hell?

Maybe he should have shot her too, at least when it became clear leaving her behind was not an option. But that would have been a senseless, coldblooded homicide and a trigger-happy psychopath he was not. Goddamn that bimbo receptionist and her beguiling wiles! The only optimism to be had in trailing her out of state was that it would be harder to trace her impending death back to him. And he didn't necessarily want to leave a string of dead bodies in his wake. She should have been his first.

Frank paced the tiny tile space anxiously and rubbed his face to bits. When he caught sight of himself in the wide mirror he collapsed his elbows on the counter and peered at his face from between a cage of fingers.

The plan, he thought. Focus on the next step. There is only forwards now.

Knock, knock. "Frank?"

Deal with this. Immediately, said a voice in his head.

Frank calmly opened the door and stared down at the obstacle. It stared back, clearly questioning...everything. "What do we do now?" she asked. He should have said, "Nothing. Go home. Go anywhere but within a hundred yards of me." But she was now the chief suspect in the slaying of a dumpster diving child predator, who also knew his face, his name, and his vehicle; and he was too sensible to leave a kid behind to climb out of her own hole.

"Do you know how to get to Oak Hills from here?"

"That depends," she said, shrugging.

He squinted. "Depends?"

"Yeah. See...I know you're about kill somebody else and I want to help."

Oh great, he thought. First murder and now blackmail. But he had to admit, he might be in custody right now if she hadn't--

"No," he said flatly. Her elated countenance deflated and drooped.

"Please, Frank! I can't go home now! They're going to pin that cornhole's murder on me!"

"You're...a kid! You're a child for crying out loud! What sort of vendetta could you possibly have?"

Sunday frowned and looked thoughtful. She swiveled halfheartedly around on her heels, folded one leg beneath her and collapsed onto the bed looking so pathetically defeated Frank almost cringed.

"It's just...I've been waiting for an opportunity like this..." Her eyes glistened beneath a crinkled forehead. "Please. I want this more than anything."

"Wha--wh--what about your family?" Frank sputtered. Sunny regarded him blankly. "Don't you have any family--or-or friends--that would report you missing? You can't just walk off the face of the earth!"

She shrugged, but her overall countenance did nothing to improve. "I don't have a real family. I live in a foster home on Malcolm Street with three other losers. Our "mother's" never heard of a bra..." Sunday looked at the floor and the snide expression she wore to discuss her foster mother fell. "And I don't like Craig." He figured he knew what she meant by that. "And I don't have any friends either," she added forcefully. "Frank, this world is a vampire. And you aren't going to find anyone else in the whole U.S. who's willing to help you just for shits and giggles!" Frank almost laughed at that. Sunday rose from the bed, smiling brightly as her translucent blue eyes set into a cold pose beneath her brow. "But I am. And I promise not to slow you down either. Please, Frank?"

Frank suddenly felt desperately tired; his migraine pulsed and his ears rang. He sat down on the bed and tried to regulate his breathing as he mulled over his thoughts. Meanwhile, he could feel Sunday's gaze burning a hole in the side of his head.

Fact: he had no idea what to do with her if he decided it was too much of a risk to bring her along. Fact: if he was caught, he'd be in twice the shit. She probably had no experience with shooting; Frank would have to watch her back as often as he watched his own. That's twice the need for provisions and twice the chances of being recognized. Fact: she knew the way to Susan's sister's house. She knew that bodies had to be hidden. And Frank had never seen anyone so cheerful in the wake of death. Maybe he wouldn't have to travel this road alone. He sat up and looked at her.

"You will do everything I say," he ground out. She nodded somberly, but eagerly. "I'm in charge. I'm the adult. 'Kay? When I say something it goes, no more shit."

"Absolutely."

"You can't back out halfway through this."

"And I'll make sure you don't," she promised.

They had worked out the plan. The sun had set an hour and a half ago. Frank's hands gripped tight to the wheel without any effort or fatigue: his muscles were just frozen that way. The lights of cars and street lamps whizzing by seemed to leave streaks in his vision. His skin felt as though it had been rubbed down in Icy Hot. Now that this was real, now that it was happening, Frank wondered if it would still give him the satisfaction he expected from it. What if his rage had mellowed? What if it came down to it and, once he heard her cry and beg, he realized he didn't have the heart? It certainly hadn't taken much back at the convenience store, although in his defense, they had been in a bit of a hurry. And it had taken even less back at the motel room. A few choice words and his conscience had completely evaporated. So many things could go wrong. So many things already had.

"Is that what you look like when you really want to turn around?" Sunday's voice wafted through his thought cloud. She was sitting in the passenger seat, peering at him analytically.

"I'm about to shoot someone. I'm allowed to be nervous."

"I know," she said, eyes wide and giddy. "I'm nervous too. But like an excited nervous, y'know?"

"Myea,"

"Okay, at the second stop light make a left and go straight on that road for a little while. Can I ask what our motive is? I feel like if I'm going to be a part of this I really need to be part of it."

The truth rushed into Frank's mind in blips of images and sound bites. There was too much to tell now. The last thing he needed was to rile himself into a rage-induced frenzy. He needed to go in clear-headed, confident, like he had leaving Syracuse.

"Later, maybe. I have to think now."

There was scant traffic on this side of town. It was dark but the hour was not especially late, so Frank reasoned that it must have had something to do with all the egotistical upper crusts that seemed to have colonized this area with their miniature palaces. Not that he was being cynical--why go out when you could hole up in your manse, with or without your friends? Pig out on your brand name groceries and fully stocked bar, hire enough exotic dancers to populate Rhode Island, lounge in your hot tub until your insides were parboiled...It was understandable. But for all the desertion, it meant the possibility of busybody eyes peering between mini blinds, poking through slats in pool deck fences.

"You're about to pass it."

Sunday's voice punctuated his reverie again. There was just enough time to glance in the rearview before swerving. The tires squealed dramatically, someone somewhere laid on their horn, Sunday shrieked as if on a theme park ride. When Frank had regained control of the vehicle--because honestly at some point he was sure he had lost it--he straightened the wheel and cast dashed glances over at Sunday.

"Y'okay? Y'alright?"

"We're both fine Frank," she panted, thrill ghosting her face. "You're behind the wheel. I'm just along for the ride. Okay...slow down so I can see where we are."

He let the speed drop below thirty and coasted along. Each of them peered out of their respective windows at the passing luxury. He let out an appreciative whistle. This was a swanky neighborhood. Not at all like the middle class field of mass-produced clone homes he'd been expecting. They cruised down the main road, checking each street sign that the glare of the headlights revealed to them.

"What street are we looking for?" Sunday asked. And just like that, Frank felt his brain explode like a punctured tire. He punched the brakes, the momentum throwing both of their bodies forward. Sunday stared at him. "What's wrong?"

He had never felt so moronic. Susan had told him every detail of her trip down to what restaurant they planned to have breakfast in. She told him enough to get him this far...but not the address. What was worse...he'd come all this way, made all these plans, and at no point had it occurred to him to wonder how exactly he planned to find her. He stared at the wheel.

"My god. This is so perfect. It's like she did it on purpose," he mumbled. A beat of introspection, and then..."Son of a--Goddamn..." He yanked at the steering wheel like a maniac, shaking the entire car, wanting more than anything to pry it off and beat himself to death with it. "Motherfuckin'..."

"Whoa! Whoa!" Sunday clutched onto her seat belt, her long hair undulating with the motions. Frank collapsed against the headrest, heaving. "Be cool. We can find another way. Come back tomorrow morning if we have to and case the neighborhood."

He shook his head. "Nope. I want this done tonight." Flipping on his blinker, he turned down the first street on their right. "Look for a red Saturn. Four-door. Scratch near the bumper."

Sunday did as she was told. They inched along slowly, allowing the headlights to thoroughly bathe the surroundings. Every time a car approached from behind, Frank pulled alongside the curb, allowing them to pass. He didn't want to be tailed in a stolen vehicle while in search of a place to commit homicide. Very little was said between them, discounting the infrequent cases of mistaken identity. This neighborhood was a field of houses. It was entirely possible he would never ever find the one he was looking for. Despair settled in his chest like a sandbag.

An hour. One whole goddamn hour he had been searching. His eyes were starting to cross from straining to see through the dark. All sorts of plausible scenarios floated around in his mind. What, for instance, would he do if he couldn't get Susan alone? He didn't want to have to kill her sister too. What if--

"Stop!" Sunday cried. Frank slammed on the brakes, which squealed. She pointed. "There!"


	5. Ding-Dong

There 'it' was indeed: Susan's car, parked in the drive of a palatial house whose entry arch was like a cathedral stoop. Frank had parked along the curb across the street. He could feel Sunday's breath across his neck as she craned over the console to gawp out of his window with him. There were no neighbors out, no other cars in the driveway, although the street was aglow with lighted windows.

"What now?" Sunday uttered. The sound of her voice was so close to his ear that he jumped.

"I dunno. Can't tell how many people are in there," he said. He observed the windows closely, hoping to see a shadow; something to attest to who or what was inside. Unfortunately, all the blinds were drawn. If push came to shove, and he had to shoot whomever else happened to be home, he supposed he could, but he felt that it would deduct from the sense of justice he expected to receive.

"I have an idea," said Sunday, and began rooting around.

"What are you looking for?"

"Paper and a pen. You wouldn't by chance have a clipboard would you?"

Frank shrugged. "Maybe. This car's stolen so..."

Sunday paused to look at him, wide-eyed. But soon a devilish smirk of approval transformed her face and she resumed digging. Frank reached over and popped open the glove compartment. Sure enough, inside was a small legal pad and a permanent marker, along with various and sundry other items.

Sunday snatched up the pad and pen and began to get out.

"Whoa! Wh-where are you going?"

"To find out who's in there. And to do that I have to knock on the door."

"You can't just--"

She rolled her eyes. "Frank. Gimme a little credit here. What do you think I'm going to say? Excuse me, ma'am. I was just wonderin' what the odds are that my partner and I will be caught trying to murder you on this fine evening. Can I get a head count?" She gave him her best post-sarcasm cringe and slammed the door. Frank watched as she crossed the street, golden hair waving out behind her, notepad tucked into the crook of her elbow.

Partners, huh?

Frank hadn't considered it that way, though, in his defense, he hadn't wanted her along to begin with. She was certainly willing enough. Unafraid of active participation. But she hadn't killed anyone yet, so he wouldn't get ahead of himself here. Right now the only thing that counted for much was her ability to knock someone off. Having the stomach for dead bodies was one thing; so was buttering up some unwitting fool. None of that would save your life in a bind, and it was very likely that in the future, one of them would need the other's help. He could only hope that when the time arrived, she wouldn't hesitate.

Sunday jogged up the steps and took a second to compose herself. She looked back at Frank once before turning and ringing the doorbell. His heart quickened in the following seconds. He could only imagine how Sunday felt, standing under the glare of the pendant light, waiting and waiting. In all truthfulness, she was at an advantage here. She and Susan had never met; there was no valid reason for Susan to suspect that a five foot three teenage girl who looked like an American dream was out for blood, let alone hers.

The door opened on none other than Susan herself. On instinct, Frank pulled the lever on his seat and went careening backward, the better to hide, though the tinting on the windows was probably too dark to see through, especially at night.

With one eye, Frank peeped around the edge of the car door. They were speaking (Sunday, with much bouncing and false perk). She scribbled something on the pad just as Susan disappeared around the open door, only to return and hand Sunday a crisp dollar bill. Sunday started back down the steps and, rather than making her way back towards the car, she strolled along the sidewalk. When Susan closed the door, she darted across the street, yanked the door open and dove inside.

"So?" Frank prompted when all it seemed she could do was pant.

"She's alone. Or so she says."

"What'd you say to her?" Frank asked. Sunday smiled at him and slipped back into character.

"Hel-lo. My youth group at Ray of Hope church is collecting for a mission trip to Peru. If you'd like to make a donation we'll enter you and everyone in your household to win a prize package. I've already got your address...is anyone else home?" Sunday held up a ten dollar bill. "Figured I might as well get something for my troubles while I'm there." She crammed it in her pocket.

Frank stared at her, unable to compute. She had spat that lie out like it had been in her mouth all day. She had manipulated Susan into telling her that she was home alone...and scammed her out of ten dollars doing it. Because why the hell not?

Frank produced his Glock and prepared the chamber. Sunday beheld this process with rapt attention.

"You listen to me," he commanded. The task was back at hand. "You wait in this car. Don't get out, don't roll the window down...nothing. If somebody comes, honk the horn." Frowning, Sunday opened her mouth to object, but Frank beat her to it. "Don't even. Did you or did you not just agree to obey me?"

Her frown deepened, but she resigned to closing her mouth. A pang of remorse twitched within him, but he'd have to make it up to her later. He needed to get this over with before anyone else came home.

Stepping out, he hurried across the street, gun dangling casually in hand by his side. He should have brought a mask or something. Susan would recognize him instantly. He'd have to remember to pick one up before the next hit.

The porch light washed over him as he stood before the door and pressed the bell, listening to its hollow tune echo from the other side of the door. Frank made sure to stand squarely over the entrance and away from the crystalline window panels flanking it. If she saw who it was, she was likely to skip straight for the phone and call the cops, correctly assuming he had stalked her there.

Several unbearable seconds passed. His heart was working overtime and the wait wasn't helping. And just as he thought he might have to ring again, the door swung open and he was face to face with Susan's horrified expression.

"Frank?"

He pulled the gun, concealing it between them. Susan gasped, her face contorting with terror.

"Inside. Let's go," he ordered, keeping his tone even. Floundering between shock and fear, Susan scrambled back into the entryway, appearing to pull Frank with her. He closed the door behind him.

"Fra-Frank! Don't! Are you insane?!"

He advanced on her until they entered the living room and her knees hit the sofa. She collapsed onto its plush cushions with her trembling hands splayed out before her in a futile attempt at defense.

"Please! Please, I-I'll do wha--anything you want! Anything!" she stammered.

"Shut up," he said woodenly. Tears sprang from her eye as the lips he had once been so taken with curled inward obediently. Frank gave himself a moment to consider what he would say. She needed to know, to understand the point. You couldn't teach someone a lesson if they didn't know why they were being punished, after all. In the silence, Susan whimpered.

"Do you know what's happening right now?" he asked. She gaped at him with wide, frantic eyes that stared down the barrel of his gun.

"You've got a gun...in my face! What...what am I supposed to think is happening?"

Of course. Of course, she didn't know. She refused to know and probably hadn't thought of him again since he had dragged himself and his battered pride out of the office for the last time. It was true that she had been well within her rights to report things that made her uncomfortable. But why string it out for so long? Why take it up with his boss instead of him? Why not just tell him to fuck off instead? It angered him beyond his ability to overcome it.

"You cost me my goddamn job, Susan!" he shouted. "On top of everything else...your bullshit got me fired!" Susan regarded him, more alarmed than ever now that his repose had flown out the window. Now, it seemed, he might do anything.

"Frank...I'm--I'm sorry they let you go...but things were starting to get out of hand! It-it got to the point where I couldn't get around you. After a while, I just...felt obligated to --"

"Out of--" He lowered his gun. Disbelief crashed over him. "Have I ever hit on you? Have I ever done anything that another halfway decent person wouldn't have done? And while the whole godforsaken office was staring at your ass and making jokes about your tits, where was I?" Frank gestured with his gun as he spoke. Susan's eyes trailed it closely. Seeing this, he aimed it at her once more. He wanted to make sure she was paying attention. "Answer that. Where was I?"

"I don't--" She began to weep in earnest, and he liked to imagine it was because he had exposed her to her own guilt. "I don't know what you...want me to say! I had a right...I had a right to do what I did..."

"Yeah. You did." He pursed his lips with the slightest of regrets. "It's just too bad you managed to do it to the only person who didn't deserve it." Frank raised the gun, aimed for her forehead, and pulled the trigger. Susan shrieked and covered her face...but the gun only clicked. And clicked, and clicked again.

"Son of a bitch..." Frank wrestled with the slide, mentally pleading with it to unjam, but it was stuck tight. This was precisely the type snafu he'd been expecting, and not a moment too soon.

Susan wasted no time seizing on his misfortune. She lept to her feet and vaulted across the room. Frank could think of nothing else to do but give chase, his gun clicking mutinously out in front of him. He struggled to keep up with her every bit as much as she struggled to run across the tile in her hosiery. Screaming and glancing repeatedly over her shoulder didn't help matters. She zig-zagged evasively, clearing a hall table of its lamp and vase and swiping pictures off the walls, all things which Frank himself had to evade. At one point, she skidded into the master bedroom with Frank hot on her heels. 

An immense four-poster bed sat in the middle of the room. Susan raced around it while Frank attempted to head her off. They fell into a screaming, clicking, cursing, monkey-chased-the-weasel around the bed. He had her cornered, but the moment he took his eyes off her to trifle with his obstinate bastard of a gun, she made a break for the door, Fred-Flintstoneing it on the tile before gaining traction.

"Aw, fuck..." He fell back into formation behind her, but she was already out of sight. Not a good sign. 

Once in the hallway, he halted. Even her hysterics had died away. He crept onward, darting his head into passing rooms, his ears on high alert for hushed blubbering. She couldn't have had time to hide. To run...yes. But where, then, was she? 

Jesus, what a shit show. But it was probably his own fault for not cleaning a gun that had sat untouched for so many years. It simply hadn't occurred to him in moment's passion. Now, god willing, if he ever caught up with her, he supposed he would just use it like the rock it was and bludgeon her into pulp with it. The idea was stomach-churning, but he had to finish this.

Frank was advancing on the kitchen, which he glimpsed at the end of the hall. And now that he was approaching...there was a sound; a very subdued one. Was that...What was that? Gasping? Grunting? Gagging? Suddenly on edge, Frank didn't bother to hurry. And when he emerged into the spacious kitchen, he stopped, the hand clutching his useless weapon fell dead at his hip.

Susan was on the floor, her stockinged feet kicking and sliding along the tile, scraping for purchase. Her hands clutched at her neck below a face that was many things, but a healthy color was not one of them. And behind her was Sunday, gripping the tassels of a nylon curtain rope and pulling it with all her might against Susan's throat. She grimaced in her effort to end it quickly but considering Susan's bulging eyes and wide, silent mouth, she was failing. Susan abandoned prying at the rope and began groping around behind her, anything to flag Sunday's hold. Sunday evaded the swipes by reclining onto the floor, her knees against Susan's back. They rolled onto their sides as Susan attempted to get to her knees. Frank watched the tussle in muted stupefaction. It was mostly soundless, save for the scrape of shoes on tile and rasp of clothes and skin.

The skirmish drew to a close as Sunday straddled Susan's back and tugged against the rope like the reigns on a horse, tassels dancing outside her fists. With a final twitch, Susan stilled. Sunday held her pose for a moment longer, the better to ensure absolute lifelessness, and let Susan's purple noggin smack like a rock to the floor.

For the longest time, Sunday sat where she was--on the back of a dead woman--and panted. Frank was beyond words, but he had to say something.

"Didn't I tell you to stay in the car?" Sunday got shakily to her feet, her back to him. She was breathless and heaving and when she turned around, her face was a bonfire of exhilaration.

"I did it!" she proclaimed, jumping into the air and pumping her arms. "Yes! Yes!" She hurdled over Susan's carcass and latched onto his midsection in a highly malapropos hug. The impact of her unseemly embrace jarred him from his stupor.

"Hey. Hey, get off me!" He dislodged himself, but her celebratory hopping went on unabated. "I don't believe you. This is day one of our tour and already you're defying rules and endangering yourself," Frank scolded. Finally, utterly spent, Sunday's arms fell out of the air and perched on her hips. She pivoted to present him with her shit eating triumph.

"Frank. I want you to look at me. And now look at her," they both cast a glance at Susan, "and tell me again who was endangered."

She had him there. And as much as it really pissed him off to admit it, if she hadn't come inside, he and the late Susan might still be on a carousel of alternating terror and frustration. Or worse.

"Let's get outta here." He ushered her towards the door. "And take that thing with you. Don't leave it here. We'll get rid of it somewhere else." She wound the rope around her hand and skipped ahead of him in the direction of the car.

Inside, Frank was careful not to peel away, opting instead for a casual liftoff. The urgency that had come quite literally with the race against the clock to knock Susan off was being left behind with every uptick in the speed limit. Sunday was laughing, the sound of which was musical and freeing, and he began to loosen all over, easing back into the seat. He had done it: what he set out to do. They had done it. 

For the first time in what might have been months, Frank smiled. Eased into it. And it felt fantastic; natural and healthy. He felt as though he were laughing away that chunk of concrete that had solidified in his chest cavity. 

He looked over at Sunday in the passenger seat, her hair surfing on currents from the open window.

He had been right to wish for someone to share this side of himself with. And after tonight, it seemed taking Sunday along for the ride might turn out be exactly what he had wished for.


	6. The First of Many

Frank's migraine was gone. Left, it seemed, with Susan's body miles back.

"You hungry?" he asked. Sunday lit up.

"Ugh, yeah. Make it fast and greasy, too. I haven't eaten since that pack of Skittles back at the store."

She directed him to the nearest drive-through. They took one look at the filthy, battered menu marquee and began to drool. Burgers with bacon and extra cheese, curly fries, large sodas...the works. Their food came to them in a bag so sodden with grease it was nearly transparent. As they pulled away from the window in the direction of the motel, Frank didn't think he could feel any better, nor indeed that he ever had.

"Thanks for this," said Sunday, slurping on her soda. She lowered the hot, damp bag to the floorboard between her feet.

"Yeah, no problem. I owe you one for cutting in back there." Listening to her drink was torture; he took up his own and gulped it till his mouth was numb from the cold. "I should've cleaned this gun before I left. It's so full of gunk it jammed. I had to chase her all over the goddamn house."

"Who was that anyway? Not that I need any justification or anything, but a little back story is always juicy," she said, waggling her eyebrows in delight. Frank was transported back to those mind-numbing days at the office, complete with sound blips of incessant phone ringing and the never-ending clickity-clack of keyboards. His eyes squinted involuntarily from the memory of inescapable fluorescence. Suddenly his collar was too tight and his armpits were sweaty and Brian was cackling behind him. The bathrooms stunk and the carpet was ugly and all the fucking papers! "Sooo?"

And he was back in the car, behind the wheel, no less. He cleared his throat.

"We worked together." Sunday awaited elaboration. "She...sort of, was a receptionist and I...sort of..." he made a flippant gesture, hoping against hope that he didn't just sound like the token jilted office sleaze, "had a little crush on her. Not-not that I ever asked her out or-or anything! I didn't. But...anyway...we talked a lot. Every chance I got, I talked to her. She made me smile, y'know? Just seeing her face." Frank swallowed, pointedly keeping his eyes on the road because he could feel Sunday staring intently, and he imagined that her face reflected the pity he felt for himself. "She was beautiful. Kind. A great conversationalist, and that's a something that no one is anymore.

"And then..." he laughed here, but there was no humor in it, "and then I sent her flowers and found out from my boss that apparently I had been harassing her, and that was news to me." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sunday's head turned away. "That week I had overheard four jokes about her, just by walking in the men's room."

He let it die there so that they road in solemnity filled with the muffled roar of surrounding traffic and the hiss of the AC. He didn't want to look over at her; afraid he might find that expression of polite, albeit, reluctant acceptance plastered across her face. She had asked, and there it was for her to look at and, perhaps, spit upon if she felt so inclined.

"Well...shit. If you'd told me all of that sooner I might not've made it so quick and painless."

They looked at one another at last, and Frank began to laugh, not simply because Susan's death had been neither quick, nor painless, and not only for the relief that slackened like a noose around his neck, but because of the enigma that she was. His doubts about her had been her fooling him like she had probably been fooling people all her short life. But after tonight, after watching the beautiful, spirited teenager sitting beside him wrap a cord around the throat of a fully grown woman, wrestle her to the floor and strangle the life out of her, all because Frank said so--well, he was beginning to think she wasn't messing around.

"And technically," she added, "I owed you. You took out that scum at the store for me...I shut down your escaping sweetheart for you. I guess the score is one to one."

Ginger, the clerk who had quasi-correctly sniffed them out earlier at check-in, spotted them strolling through the lobby with their junk food and stopped munching her gum to watch them pass. Frank risked a glance over and caught her stink eye, but his high was so complete that he smirked triumphantly, much to her chagrin.

The air in their room was cold, almost damp, and it cooled the misty perspiration that had accumulated on them. Sunday sprung onto the bed and sat up just in time to catch the burger Frank had catapulted at her (her fries arrived more gently).

"So do you have like...a List or something?" Sunday asked, stuffing a bundle of fries in her mouth.

"No. I'm kinda just...making this up as I go along. I've got a few hopefuls singled out, but it's best to keep it random."

"Concur. So...what's your M.O.? I mean, you're not just another insatiable slasher cliche, right?"

This was where he anticipated they would find their common ground. That being said, he was nervous to discuss it. If they were to disagree, what might that mean for them? But so far honesty had been a veritable golden ticket to freedom. A real season pass to all things convenient and satisfactory.

"How about this instead," he began, adjusting his position in the desk chair. "To make sure right now that we're on the same page before we go any farther together." Sunday squirmed in excitement. "I'll tell you something I hate. You tell me something you hate. Things that a person might say or do that, in the future, could bring about their demise should they run into us."

Frank watched her roll this around in her head. She crumpled her wrappers and went for a free throw in the corner trash, then wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. "Okay, you go first."

Frank sat back and thought about it for a minute. God, there were so many. Where to start...

"Televangelists. Really anybody who makes a living leeching off the gullibility of sheeple."

Sunday nodded, impressed. "Good one. In keeping with the political theme, I think NRA kooks. If you're too chicken shit to go bowling without your piece on display around your waist like it's fuckin' 1885...please, use it on yourself. I mean, you're the one with the gun, who the fuck are you scared of?"

"I'm for looser gun laws."

Sunday scoffed at him, disbelief across her face. "Frank! Then every nut will have a gun!"

He chuckled at the irony. "Okay...how about douche bags in Ed Hardy?"

"Or women who call their tits the girls."

"People who go through their lists of ringtones in a restaurant."

"Anyone who's offended by words like 'shoot' or 'crap.'"

"Anyone who has ever purchased an anarchy T-shirt."

"If you misuse the term 'literally."

Frank burst out laughing at that. He felt the same way. "Oh, man. Good one." He leaned forward, presenting his raised hand for hearty high five. Frowning, she looked at his open hand, then back at him.

Frank's smile disappeared. "C'mon, don't leave me hangin' Sunny old girl."

"Anyone who gives or receives physical high fives." She cringed. He fell back into his chair.

"Mental high five?"

"Sure. Mental high five. And who am I? Your nag?"

And as that awkward moment drew to a close, another one promptly introduced itself. Frank hadn't slept since the night before he left Syracuse, a realization which he suddenly felt in his bone marrow. Resolution had been the only thing holding him upright. Now that the god of retribution within had been appeased, it was all catching up to him. It was bananas to stick around town after their escapade tonight, but he was going on two days with no sleep and little food.

And there was only one bed.

"I'll take the floor," he volunteered, grabbing a pillow and plopping it down onto the atrocious pink and blue carpet. If his vision were better, he imagined his might see a cloud of dead skin cells take flight around it.

"What?! No! No. Frank, the bed is big enough for both of us. It's a queen."

"Sunday..." He hoped the pleading look on his face was enough of an explanation. "We aren't sleeping in the same bed."

"Why?"

"Why? Because...you're a kid!" he cried, then more resolutely, "you're a kid, and I could be your dad, so..."

"You know what?" She got defiantly to her feet and threw her own pillow on the floor. "If that's how it's gonna be, fine. If you're so goddamn old, you sleep on the bed, you geezer, and I'll take the floor." She knelt down and disappeared beneath the horizon of the mattress. "Ugh. Ugh! It smells. Frank. There's a stain."

Guilt-stricken and fading fast, Frank rubbed his face. She made a good point. They may as well learn to cozy up to one another now, because if she was serious about running along beside him, then this wasn't the last hotel room they'd be sharing, and he had no plans of springing for a two bedder.

"C'mon. Get up from there. That floor has seen some things." Come to think of it, he thought privately, so has she. Her head popped above the mattress like a curious gopher. And when she had established that he was genuine based on the exhausted droop of his features, she sprang up and onto the bed. Frank, in contrast, hesitated near the bedside, examining the space that was left, tallying up square inches and making mental allotments. When his eyes jumped to the bare expanse of her long, slender legs, he shrank away.

She spotted him loitering and rolled her eyes. "Oh my god. What are you so afraid of? The only two people who'll know about this are in this room. In the morning we can stop and pick up a chastity belt if it'll make you feel better."

Managing a halfhearted smile, Frank figured if nothing else could be said of her, at least her sarcasm was lacerating. With that, he went down onto his side. The muscles lining the half of his body nearest her tensed involuntarily as he clung to the edge of the mattress. It was like lying on an over-turned egg carton but his aching body welcomed it.

She flipped off the lamp, plunging them into a darkness that he gladly drowned in, the burden of sight taken from him at last. How long since he had felt this? A lie down devoid of raucous laughter or blaring late night talk shows permeating the wall above his head. No baby wailing, no work in the morning, no migraine, and most importantly, no more Susan.


	7. Free At Last

They were able to check out of the motel with little incident. Ginger seemed happy to have scum like Frank out of such an upstanding retreat and cast repeated looks of appraisal at Sunny. He hadn't meant to sleep until dawn, but he had surrendered to that nothingness so consentingly that the alarm he had set was wasted. He had awoken instead to Sunny gently rocking his body. It was seven thirty now.

"Do you have a phone?" Sunny asked him on the road. Frank looked at her.

"Yeah. But don't call anybody. You're already being looked for--"

"I'm not making a call. I want to check the news. See if they've released anything about the murders."

Deciding that was a decent enough idea, Frank straightened the left half of his body and dug around in his pocket, narrowly avoiding a rear-end collision with the car ahead of them. He passed his phone over and she began navigating its complicated features in the manner of her generation. Meanwhile, and maybe it was his well-rested mind talking, Frank was realizing how pleasant the morning was. If this pattern kept up, he might find himself a morning person before all was said and done.

"Anything?" he prompted.

"Noo..." she drawled, distracted by the search. That was fine with him. He wanted to be as far as geographically possible from this place by the time word got around about it. "Wait!" Sunny tucked one leg under the other and held the phone an inch from her face. "'Home Invasion Yields Body at Oak Hills Estate.'" She turned her thrilled expression on him and read on. "'Police uncovered the body of 37 year old Susan Shaffer, of Syracuse, New York, yesterday night at a home in the Oak Hills housing edition. The home belonged to Shaffer's sister and brother-in-law, whom she was visiting. The affidavit stated that Shaffer had been in the home alone late that night and that a struggle appeared to have occurred between Shaffer and an unknown individual, although there was no sign of forced entry. Shaffer sustained injuries to her throat consistent with instrumental strangulation.'"

Sunny fell silent.

"Maybe it's a good thing I didn't use the gun--"

"Hang on, there's more," she interjected. "Oh Jesus, listen to this! 'Police believe the crime to be the latest in a string up home invasions that have been taking place in the area for the past year. Past reports indicate that the perpetrators seem to target houses at random, but on occasion, have been known to take nothing from the homes. Since reports have begun, these break-ins have resulted in the deaths of five other Oak Hills residents, those of Mark and Sherry Gilfrey, 45 and 47; Daniel Milner, 50; and John and Rowena Curtis, 35 and 36.'"

This time the silence persisted. Frank and Sunny stared at one another in stupefaction. It was so convenient that he dared not hope. Was it possible the pair of them were about to get off scot-free? Were they about to get away with murder so easily? Encouraged by their streak of good fortune, Frank pressed it for more.

"W-well what about you? Does it say anything about the convenience store?"

"Umm..." Sunny began tapping feverishly at the keys. Several intense moments endured before she spoke. "Yep! Here it is. 'Body of unidentified man found inside a deserted convenience store. Reports state the victim died of a single gunshot wound to the chest. The whereabouts of the clerk on duty at the time are currently unknown. If you have any knowledge of blah blah blah..."

"Weren't there any security cameras in that place?" Frank asked, not sure where exactly he was going anymore, as long as it was away.

"Yeah, but they don't work. They're just there as an empty threat."

Frank decided to let it drop. The last thing they needed was to frantically catastrophize. If all that could be done now was drive forward, then what good did worries and what-ifs do?

So he drove on, headed straight west, leaving Virginia behind mile after mile. He kept having to remind himself that it didn't matter if they knew where they were going, or even where they were. That was a sort of perk to this mission: no matter where they were, they were exactly where they needed to be. In this line of work, business was always booming. And all this spare time on the road cooped up in the car together would allow them to get better acquainted. Already, Sunny seemed fascinated by Frank. Not for any particular reason; just for him, and of course, his mission.

Privately, he wondered if Sunny had lied to him about her situation and the possibility that he might be taking her away from a perfectly decent family who were out of their minds with worry, all to satisfy her rebellious streak. Many times already the urge to ask had arisen, only to be swallowed. And he knew fear kept him from it; he didn't want to know. A wall of denial was rapidly constructed to blind him from the notion.

"Oh no," she said, interrupting his reverie. She turned to him, stricken.

"What? Whassa matter?"

"I don't have anything. Clothes, shoes, toothbrush..." This was quite the occurrence to Frank as well. His own suitcase was overflowing with all the clothes and various assorted necessities it would hold, but he didn't have everything. Certainly not enough to share.

He stole his eyes off the road to give his passenger a once-over.

"You don't have expensive taste, do you?" he asked. She wagged her head. "Not too picky about it?" No again. "'Kay. We'll find a secondhand store. Buy seasonal," he warned her. "Worry about the cold when we get somewhere cold."

"Sweet!"

Rather than squander eight hours crossing the state horizontally, Frank detoured up toward Ohio. And sure enough, they stumbled upon their first salient thrift store on the outer edge of West Virginia. As soon as the car was in park, Sunny flew out the door like an uncaged bird and darted inside. Frank didn't follow her immediately. He wanted to see what was in the trunk.

He lifted the hatch and peered into the darkly carpeted pit. Lying inside was a spare tire, along with the jack and accouterments, a small tool caddy, which when shaken told tales of contents, and a slew of goddam titty mags!

He slammed the trunk and glanced around, red-faced. On the downside, the tire was taking up a sizable portion of the trunk. He'd stow his own suitcase in the remaining space and anything Sunny bought would likely fill the rest and some of the backseat.

Upon entering the store, Frank's face slackened. It was a veritable warehouse of cast-off collateral. Disarmed by the sheer expanse of the clothing aisles, he grabbed one of the ridiculous tiny shopping carts and began meandering. He plucked a few well-worn plaid shirts and tossed them in his cart, along with a couple of T-shirts and a pair of jeans. They weren't really here for him.

"There you are." Frank looked up to find Sunny pushing her own mini cart briskly toward him. She leaned over to snoop through his salvage and frowned. "Is that all?"

"I got a bunch of stuff in the trunk," he explained, inadvertently recalling the magazines. His eyes trained on her cart. It was almost full. That wasn't saying much for the size of it, but they had only been here about half an hour. "Looks like you made out."

Sunny wanted to try on a few of her finds, so Frank waited on a stool outside the curtained stall, turned off by the idea of having to track her down in this wonderland of miscellany. The curtain rippled as she shuffled around on the other side.

"I feel like crap. You're buying me all this stuff and I can't get you anything. Let me buy you something with my scam dollars," she said from inside.

"Nah. You more than earned that," he remarked.

"I totally could've taken her for more. Next time." When the curtain was whipped aside, Frank's gum nearly fell out of his head. "Whatcha think?"

"Christ. Are those shorts or denim underwear?" he quipped, uncomfortable with everything in his field of vision. The high-waisted shorts she wore covered more of her belly than her legs. They were frayed and spotty with acid wash. Sunny's face went from disappointed to scandalized in no time flat.

"Strike one," she warned, then vanished with a flourish behind the curtain. Frank didn't know what to say after that. He should have known an issue like this would come up. They could have all the world in common, but at the end of the day she was a sixteen-year-old girl and he was a forty-year-old man who reddened at the sight of porno magazines.

The second reveal was no better. "How many of those shorts do you have?"

"Five. Plus two pairs of jeans, a bunch of shirts, a few sleeping things, a bathing suit, three pairs of shoes and a partridge in a pear tree." She grinned with self-approval. She modeled a few more things for him that he refused to look at for more than two seconds. A few of the shirts were not whole, but literally halves of shirts. The last outfit (because if she walked out after this, he wouldn't be sitting there) was a real doozie. Frank never imagined that overalls could cover so little; that was their purpose after all. These were sheared off above her mid-thigh, and underneath, a tiny white T-shirt clung to her rib cage. The skin of her sides was on parade.

"I think this is my favorite," she commented, examining herself in the mirror. When he didn't respond, she caught his face in the reflection behind her and turned around, frowning. "What? Too Ellie May Clampett?"

"Don't worry, no one's going to be looking at it. 'Cause they're gonna be too busy ignoring the fact that you're underage," he groused. Sunny, much to Frank's displeasure, appeared unmoved by the idea. Instead of lashing out, she strode over and took a seat in the lawn chair beside him. Next to his wooden bar stool, she might as well have been sitting on the floor. He stared down at her, watching her think. For the longest time, they sat there, incongruous.

"Are you going to make up some more rules for me to follow?" she asked him. Her voice held such a cadence of reluctant acceptance that he turned to her. "I know I disobeyed you last time, but I'm actually pretty good at following rules. At the house, that was all there ever was. The clothes I was wearing when I met you...I snuck them to work with me and changed because in the house girls wear dresses and skirts only. Even to bed. Like what year is it?" She leaned back and crossed her arms. Her face looked away but not before he caught the bitterness on it. "The other girls get to wear knee-length skirts and short sleeves...But not me. I'm not a simpleton. I know why they made that rule. Because they think I'm too much of a temptation."

Frank was staring when she turned to face him. Her eyes took the shape of sadness. "And it never stopped anyone from letting me know I was pretty. All the...long sleeves and turtlenecks, and layers...it didn't stop the men in their church from staring at me, and it sure as shit didn't stop the boys at school whispering." Frank found he could not look away from her. "Now that I'm out, I figured it didn't make a difference. But if you want me to wear something else...I will," she confessed. "Because this gig is too good to miss out on over length of my shorts."

Shame like never before came over him. He had been so ready to attribute her hedonism to the unspoken creed of her youth. So ready to defend how he had felt looking at her; how he imagined others would feel. And as his charge, Frank realized he didn't want that for her: to be the target of the same things he'd heard sniggered about Susan, rest she in...wherever.

Sunny pulled herself to her feet and began gathering the clothes in her arms, pairing them by type and size, ready, he assumed, to put them back. As she sauntered past, his hand darted out and grasped her arm.

"I didn't know any of that," he said, almost apologetically. She beheld him. "And...I'm not your dad or your principal for pity's sake. We're partners, so...I don't have any authority over what you wear." He let go of her arm and made sure to look her in the face. "You're free with me."

Her face took on an expression that said she had been waiting to hear something of that nature for a long, long time. In fact, she looked as though she might detonate with gratitude any second.

"Thank you, Frank," she said, squeezing the armload of clothes to her chest, which he suspected was a forced substitute for himself.

He paid for their crap and loaded it up.

"I've always wanted to kill someone in Cincinnati," she admitted, buckling her seat belt as they took off. "But I'll settle for watching you do it."

The tassels dangling from the rearview mirror jigged as they went.


	8. Thank You For Turning Off Your Cell Phone

True to his word, Frank said nothing when he sidled up next to the curb and Sunny got out to grab a newspaper, the slight curvature of her pert ass just detectable when she bent. If he looked away, it wasn't real.

It was a storybook day in Cincinnati. Little Toy Story clouds hung in a cerulean sky like ornaments, undisturbed by any winds. The streets and sidewalks bustled with the carrying out of thousands of individual lives--totally unawares. Sunny climbed back inside and began thumbing through the paper, scanning it for work like so many others these days.

"Everybody's already in jail," she complained.

"Trust me. No, they're not. Big place like this...they'll come to us. Just watch."

As much freedom as their calling allowed, they were, of course, limited in whom they could bump off. They could not, for example, stroll into a store and assassinate the douche behind the register (you got one of those per lifetime, and they had cashed theirs in back in Virginia Beach), nor could they simply mow some maniac over in the streets. No--they had to be systemic. There had to be a procedure. Too many factors came into play; they couldn't simply let loose in a hail of bullets in broad daylight.

And in between killings, they were on vacation together. Sunny had never been out of Virginia, seldom farther than Virginia Beach. With that in mind, Frank could easily imagine that this was the adventure of a thousand lifetimes for her. She never allowed herself to doze while the car was in motion; too much of the world was passing by outside their windows. Frank himself had scarcely left the overpopulated hive that was the Northeast, save for his honeymoon with Grace in Las Vegas all those years ago.

Thereagain, he wondered if Grace had taken notice of the serious lack of missed calls. Frank had lobbed his cell phone into the north bank of the Ohio river a while back, because why the hell not? It was the last surviving relic tethering him to his old life. So of course, he couldn't know if she had called, but something told him she probably hadn't. He wanted to let go. Wanted it for years. But his isolation was so advanced in their divorce alone that he shuddered at the thought of never calling her again. Of never calling anyone again.

Ergo, he had lobbed his phone into the north bank of the Ohio River.

Frank rolled his eyes over to make sure Sunny wasn't looking and then turned his head a little more. She was gazing transfixedly out the window, leaning actively away from the back of her seat. Her long yellow hair nearly dipped into her lap.

"You wanna go see a movie?" he found himself asking. Sunny's head whipped around.

"You mean like in a theater?"

"'Course I do. Where else would we go?" he asked, smirking.

"I've never been to a theater," she replied.

Frank glanced repeatedly between her and the road, trying to deduce any buffoonery, but her expression remained impassive. "Seriously? Never?" She wagged her head. With each passing hour, the conviction that he really had rescued this girl grew in strength.

The movie idea had formulated when he passed an independent film theater a few miles back. It was a shabby little joint, but the parking lot was sparse and it would be cheap.

They got out and stared up at the marquee. A mild breeze lifted Sunny's waist-length hair so that it caressed his arm.

"Church Camp," she read, shielding her eyes from the sun. "The Graves of My Lai."

"Auschwitz: The Musical?" Frank scoffed. "And Buckeye: History's First Donkey Mayor."

They exchanged matching glances of skepticism.

"I always did make it a point to avoid blaspheming cultural strife with jazz hands," she commented. "And I've had my fill of God-bothering zealots."

"Yeah. And that sounds like the donkey film my mother warned me about." They nodded at one another and Frank caught the door.

Much like the parking lot, the inside was all but deserted. There was a chatty group of teenagers skipping school near the snack counter, each of them clutching a cell phone and snickering; all except two of them, a boy and girl who were entangled in such a grotesque display of passion that Frank wanted to spit on the floor. Their hands roved over one another as if shaping each other from pottery clay. Sunny stood beside Frank and beheld the scene raptly while he paid their admission.

"Two for Graves of My Lai," he voiced through the plexiglass. He slid a ten under the gap to the ancient woman inside. She said nothing (he imagined if she were to open her mouth, her jaw would snap off) and slid two paper tickets back through to him. The change that came with it he slipped into Sunny's hand. "Go get us a soda. I'm going to the bathroom."

"Okay."

"Real. Nothing diet."

Frank strode towards the restroom and rapped smartly on the door. "Ocupado," came a sardonic voice from within. "Sorry," he called. What reason was there to be so belligerent over something like that? Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he stepped to the side and lounged against the wall with only a mental film reel of him blasting a hole through the door with a double barrel shotgun to bear his company. But it was damn good company.

"What are you looking at?"

At the sound of yet further antagonism, Frank spun his head in the direction of the counter. Sunny was reclining against the bar, much in the same manner as Frank, and had somehow managed to lasso the collective attention of the loitering group. If Frank didn't know any better, he would have guessed Sunny was one of them.

"I haven't decided yet," she rounded. The girl who'd been consuming her boyfriend sneered.

"Well turn around and get busy figuring it out," she snapped. The onlookers snickered in unison. Frank watched Sunny closely and held his breath. He had the only weapon, but there was not a shadow of a doubt in his mind that she didn't need one, and everyone in the room would be the worse for it.

Sunny kept still, nonplussed, and stared at the offending girl. Her eyes didn't blink, her breath didn't hitch, her face didn't move at all. And to anyone of a lesser constitution, this might seem, at the very least, odd. But to Frank, who realized he might know Sunny better than anyone despite their short acquaintance, this was the loudest of alarms. The ever-present gleam in her eyes was helpless to mask the darkness that arose there.

The corner of her mouth curled up in a not ungrinch-like manner as she nodded.

"Yep," she said. Pivoting away, she collected the soda that the clerk had set behind her and made for the theater door. Meanwhile, the bathroom door beside Frank blew open and the jerk inside vacated, tailing the smell of shit behind him like a cape. Frank pissed and washed his hands as fast as he could to escape the cloying odor and took a seat beside Sunny.

The springy cushion of the seat gave a twang of complaint beneath him, but it was something to revel in; he hadn't been to a movie theater in probably six years. And this one was everything that he loved about them: the dim lights, the squashy chairs, the damp, cold air verging on musty....

"What's this about?" she asked, taking a slurp of the drink. It was then that Frank realized that she had literally gotten them A soda.

"It's something that happened during the Vietnam War," he told her. "My Lai was this...little village where they sent an American troop to get the drop on a bunch of Viet Cong that were squatting there. No one else was supposed to be living in the area." Sunny offered him the one drink. Frank hesitated and took it, staring at the straw that had been between her lips. "So when they landed...all these...people came out. Old men, mothers, children..." He took a drink, cognizant of the straw. "Thought they were Viet Cong and killed them all. Kicked 'em in a ditch and the military drew the blinds."

Sunny looked at Frank as she allowed this to burrow into her understanding. Her smooth forehead furrowed with regret. He fought back a smile; moments like these, when the face of her bloodlust fell away to reveal what she truly was, a teenage girl, were always so entertaining.

At that moment the lights faded into black. Their faces were lost to one another and the screen flickered to life. And for a while, Frank couldn't focus on the film. The sheer liberation he felt left his insides so weightless that he took a moment to bask in it. Was this true happiness? Was this pleasure? Freedom? Were there really people in the world who felt this every day...every moment; people whose paths never crossed perforce with hardship and scarcely knew the meaning of the word? He fought to subdue the smile creeping across his mouth by shielding it behind his fingers, because it was so terribly inappropriate before footage of a war-torn country, behind a soundtrack of explosives and outcries. But as he reclined and lounged his arms across the seat backs, he felt that as places to have a happy ending went, he could do worse.

A small commotion from the back of the theater blew their paradise asunder, causing Frank and Sunny to crane their necks in unison. One of the sets of doors leading into the theater was propped open, biding two unwelcome things to enter: the blinding light of day and the delinquent entourage from the lobby. They giggled and jostled their way to a row in the center, well behind Frank and Sunny, who shared a look of silent dissent and tried to focus on the film.

On screen, a man was being interviewed. He recounted the horrors that had transpired and which he had been unfortunate enough to play witness to. One thing was for certain: it was enough to wipe the giddy smile right off of Frank's face.

Behind them, the group snickered. Mouthfuls of popcorn snapped between their grinning teeth.

One of the boys caught Frank's eyes and scowled.

"What are you looking at, old man?" Frank shook his head and turned around. "Yeah, that's what I thought," the youth said.

The next ten minutes ticked by in disquiet. The shuffle of restless feet on sticky carpet; hushed laughter and the hiss of a whispered conversation. The crackle and squelch of popcorn bags and soda straws. Frank's head began to pound, the threat of a migraine on the horizon. He glanced sideways at Sunny, who was straining to concentrate on the dialogue. The muscles in her stiff jaw were bulging and she was hardly blinking.

These kids could have gone anywhere, done anything, but as luck would have it, they came to a deserted theater and sat behind Frank and Sunny during the somberest of war films.

A cell phone began to ring with some obscene tune from behind them, shattering the tranquil scene of the monochromatic My Lai village on screen.

"Hey, bitch," whispered one of the girls in greeting to whoever had called so inopportunely. "What? I'm in a movie. I'm in a movie," she said a little louder. "He what?"

Frank couldn't help himself. He turned around again, submitting to the same urge one has to glare into the window of a bad driver as they pass by, if only for the sake of putting a face to the rage he felt, and was presented with the dirty souls of her shoes propped on the back of the seat in front of her, her free hand twirling absently at a stream of hair. The boy on her left once again caught sight of Frank's glaring disapproval.

"Whaaat?" he snarled.

"Don't you think you're being a little loud," he suggested. Sunny finally glanced over her shoulder, unable to ignore the prospect of confrontation.

"I don't see that it matters since you're too busy staring at us and not paying attention." By now, his girlfriend had abandoned her phone call and the rest of the group had tuned in.

Before he could return fire, Sunny was tugging on the shoulder of his sleeve, trying to get him to huddle in. He allowed this, but only because an argument wasn't what he wanted. He leaned his head close to Sunny, the better to hear her.

"What's up?"

"You were right," she whispered, grinning.

"Right? About what?"

"We didn't have to look for them."

He had said that, hadn't he? A mental tape of it played back in his head. Sunny had been ready to kill these kids since their encounter in the lobby. Her finger was practically on the trigger. Frank, on the other hand, was a bit more reluctant. Relatively deserted though the building was, that was just it: they were inside. Their escape would become an obstacle course of hallways and doors. No to mention the little old woman at the booth up front and the clerk at the snack bar. They couldn't become collateral damage; that wasn't their style.

An explosion on screen rattled the walls of the room and the walls of his chest. For a moldy shack of a theater, the joint had a stupidly decent sound system. A scenic portion of the jungle had just fallen victim to a barrage of bullets and grenades. Palm leaves and bark pelted through the air in a hail of organic shrapnel. Watching the bullets whiz by, ricocheting off of tree trunks and buildings, Frank came to realize how serendipitous it was that they had chosen a war film. And one with such spectacularly realistic sound effects. Triumphant smugness transformed his face.

He looked at Sunny, who was still eagerly awaiting confirmation that something terrible might yet transpire in this very room.

"What'd I tell you?" he relented. Appeased, Sunny turned her attention back to the screen. Conversation was futile anyway; the assault was in full, deafening, swing. It was so loud that any commotion caused by the disruptive delinquents behind them was lost.

Right up until a shower of popcorn rained down on the back of Sunny's head, tumbling in an avalanche down the front of her chest and lap. The now empty bag had bounced off the back of her head and lay in the aisle behind them. Gaping mouthed shock had arrested her, but when she turned to Frank, silent with fury, he looked into her disbelieving eyes and made the decision right then and there.

With subtlety, his hand snaked down and withdrew the semiautomatic. Before it was free, Sunny's hand clamped down on his wrist.

"Please let me," she pleaded, her face warped by longing. Frank studied her a split second longer before nodding his head and relinquishing the gun to her. She gazed at the weapon gripped tightly in her slender, youthful hand rose out of her seat. He watched attentively as her still form revolved, menacingly slow.

"Down in front!" the ill-mannered boy shouted. This was followed by a round of donkey laughter.

Frank watched Sunny's face--downturned and illuminated by the light of the projector as she glared at the group from beneath her lashes--and knew he would never be able to unsee such a look of imminent retribution. In that moment, her ache for vengeance was greater; her rage burned brighter than his ever had. It was as if, by placing a gun in her hands, he had liberated some long-caged demon.

She raised her outstretched arm and aimed. Time ground to a crawl as the teens launched into action. A seconds bag of popcorn went somersaulting into the air in a firecracker of buttery kernels. The kids scattered. Some broke for the exits at the back of the room; the few trapped in the middle of the aisle between their friends dove for the floor. Sunny pulled the trigger, emitting a sharp crack. Sitting down, Frank couldn't discern where she had aimed until a flurry of chair stuffing erupted from a hole in a distant seat cushion, narrowly missing the boy who had been sprinting past it and causing him to drop behind the row and out of sight.

Sunny frowned and bit her lip between pretty, white teeth. Her left hand came up to assist the other in steadying her aim. The gun roved to the right, locked on the retreating form of a girl galloping down the aisle like a duck at a carnival shooting range, and fired again, blasting a hole in the wall beneath the projector booth.

Frank vaulted to his feet. "What the hell are you trying to do? Gimme that!"

He snatched the weapon from her fledgling hands and pointed it at the girl, who by now had nearly reached the exit. He fired but did not wait to watch her body disappear behind the seats. He was already swiveling for the others and took two more out deftly. One of the remaining two made a mad bid for the exist while crouched to the carpet like a crab but was pitifully slower for it. The rapid fire of an onscreen turret camouflaged the crack of his shot.

A hush fell over the theater as, behind them, a soft-spoken man was giving a tearful testimony. Frank had only assassinated four inconsiderate fools. Five had been there to begin with. He and Sunny scanned the rows of seats in focused silence. Frank was just preparing himself to turn the place upside down when the kid burst from behind a seat.

"A-ha!" he cried shakily. He held his phone aloft and shuffled side to side. "I'm filming this. You'll never get away with it now. I've got it on film. Everyone will see your fucking faces, you lunatics!"

Disarmed that anyone would employ so dumb a tactic, Frank actually lowered his arm a few degrees. Obvious retorts flooded his mouth and tied up his tongue. In the end, he fired a bullet straight through the phone, obliterating it, the video incrimination, and the idiot on the other side.

And finally, the pair found themselves alone in the flickering light of the theater, just like they had wanted all along. Unfortunately, they would not be staying to enjoy the solitude or the remainder of the film.

Out in the lobby, they found the snack bar deserted and the ticket booth empty. Not sure if this was a bad sign or a stroke of luck, they hurried to the parking lot and casually drove away.

Sunny had managed to smuggle out their soda (which was thoughtful considering it had both of their DNAs mixed up all over it) and was slurping noisily. As the car carried them away from yet another scene of self-made carnage, they stewed in a dense silence. It was an unforeseen turn of events; his companion was usually quite chipper in the wake of bloodshed.

"Sorry," she murmured, turning her guilt-stricken doe eyes on him. "It always looked a lot easier than that."

He couldn't help himself; a wry smirk positioned itself across his mouth as he recalled the expression of complete bafflement on her face when she failed twice to gun her targets down. The way her slack hands had surrendered so willingly to his grabby ones.

"Don't worry about it. It probably should have occurred to me long before it did...but..." He shrugged and broke into laughter. "Did you see the looks on their faces?" he chuckled. Sunny squeezed her eyes shut and nodded, snickering. "And that last one... 'I'm filming this!'"

Sunny was laughing so hard she struggled to produce speech. "It--burst--into pieces!" She rolled in her seat.

"Yeah, it did."

He laughed, she laughed, they both laughed until all they could do was gasp for air in silence. Frank knew he had no choice but to teach Sunny how to shoot properly; he couldn't have her front and center in another exchange without knowing how to get herself--and him--out of trouble. Suppose she found herself in a scenario where wielding it might be Frank's only salvation? In the realm of opportunities, marksmen make every bullet count. For now, he would keep quiet about it.

They didn't make many stops from there on out, just in case. Often since leaving Syracuse Frank had lamented that the vehicle he'd chosen to lift was so conspicuous--it just didn't get more salient than a glaring yellow sports car--but the get-aways were fast, and hell, it was just plain awesome.


	9. The Paper Threat

"No freakin' way! Frank! We're on the news!"

At this, Frank came charging out of the bathroom, still fumbling with his zipper. Sunny was at attention on the bed, staring in open-faced amazement at the TV in the upper corner of their motel room. She aimed the remote and hiked up the volume.

"...All of whom were found dead when an employee entered the theater to clean. Officials say the victims had been shot with a semi-automatic weapon."

The camera cut to a police officer who appeared to be standing out front of the theater Frank and Sunny had left in devastation just days prior.

"Based on the positions we found the victims in, it's clear they understood there was a threat. They had enough time to try and run for the exits...unfortunately, none were able to make it out..." Scenes of police tape, flashing lights, and traffic proceeding along the passing street alternated in a grim slide show. "We're dealing with a seasoned marksman in this instance," the officer explained. "There were five victims and seven shots fired with only two stray bullets."

Frank caught Sunny stealing a furtive glance his way and met it with a look of disapproval. She cringed and spun away.

"Employees at the theater report that at the time of the incident, two other people, a Caucasian man in his fifties--"

"Fifties?!" Frank decried.

"...And a Caucasian female in her mid to early twenties--"

"Mid-twenties!" Sunny rejoiced.

"...Were in the same theater as the victims, but were not seen again by staff. A sketch artist was able to render this description of the female from one of the staff members."

Mortified, they watched as a drawing of what appeared to be Sunny materialized on screen. "Oh man," she said solemnly. "They really did a number on me, Frank. Look at me...I'm a strung out anime character."

"Police are not commenting on any possible motives at this time, but some citizens speculate the film itself might have been to blame. The film playing at the time: Graves of My Lai, a documentary on the events of a U.S. military operation during the Vietnam War, was the subject of controversy during its release over the amount of uncensored footage..."

Frank couldn't help himself. "Yeah. Oh, yeah, that's the real atrocity here: uncensored footage of crimes against humanity! Jesus H. Hang on, Sunny. In a minute they're either gonna call us patriots or terrorists, just watch."

"...May have inspired acts of terrorism by extremist patriots..."

"Incredible!" he said. "They got us with both. Fascinating."

The story went to commercial and Sunny flipped off the television, probably in response to its full moon effect on Frank's personality.

Frank began tossing their belongings on the bed to be packed up. "Here." He flung a pair of sunglasses he'd found in the car over to Sunny. "And do something with your hair. At least until we get out of range of the investigation. That sketch may have been a joke but put it with everything else they know about our situation and it might as well be a mug shot."

"Our 'situation?'"

He folded his button-downs neatly and stacked them inside. His hand recoiled when his knuckles brushed the pink satin cup of Sunny's bra. He cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"If someone familiar with this case sees you with me," he explained, "and you happen to bear a resemblance to a scribbling of a head...that's turbulence we don't need." After a beat, he peeked over to his companion and asked gently, "Do you understand?"

She nodded serenely, but he could see she was full of thoughts on the matter. He zipped up the suitcase and hastily dumped it by the door, hoping to discourage further discussion about it, and went to check them out. When he returned, Sunny had loaded the suitcase into the trunk and was waiting in the car. She was sporting the shades and had pulled her impressive length of hair into a ponytail.

With an incriminating yet blissfully inaccurate perp. sketch floating around, Frank decided to push forward. They had breached the Ohio-Indiana border the day of the murder and it didn't seem too clever to stop for long until Illinois. But they needed to leave the city anyway, not simply to evade capture, but because Frank had something planned for Sunny and it required near-total isolation. No houses in the distance; no infinite scrolling pasture fences; no nothing.

They stopped for gas outside of Bloomington where Frank refused to allow Sunny to leave the vehicle to use the bathroom, paranoid to no end about the possibility of being fingered in the theater-come-slaughterhouse snafu. At the pump, he leaned in the driver's side window to play his part in what might have escalated into something loud and hairy had he not thrown down his trump card: Obedience.

In hindsight, his stance had been admittedly ridiculous. Snags like this were a guarantee doing what they did, and they were lucky it wasn't worse. It wouldn't do to lose his shit over every close call because at some point it wouldn't be a half-assed police sketch--it would be a wanted poster; security footage; an eyewitness with better memory.

Hang-ups or none, he had made Sunny's welfare his problem when, on impulse, he had taken her up like some kind of sidekick. And that meant it didn't matter what mistakes were made or what was said between them. She was his foremost priority.

"I'm sorry," he blurted as they sailed over the state line.

Sunny abandoned her characteristic sight-seeing to look at him. "I'm sorry too," she said, frowning. "I shouldn't have called you a sperm burpin' bitch. I mean you're a lot of things but a submissive isn't one of them."

Frank snickered quietly. "If nothing else, it taught me that I need to step up my insult game. Chanel my inner Gordon Ramsey."

Sunny laughed. "It's RAAAW you worthless plank!"

By way of apology, Frank agreed to an out-of-vehicle lunch at a diner, so long as it wasn't too crowded or overpriced. He shot down the first two on account of the patronage, the likes of whom consisted primarily of trucker filth and loud-mouth bikers. They seemed like better places to find trouble than chicken fried steak. In the end, he conceded to one that was slightly overpopulated with little old women; the atmosphere was saturated with enough expired perfume to choke a horse.

"God. This is heaven," Sunny purred, peering around the joint with an expression of pure ecstasy. "Isn't it? A layer of grease on everyone and everything," she picked up the sugar jar and studied it, "outrageous portions...no one looks at you cause they don't give a shit..." She turned to him. "Did you do this a lot before you...ahh...met me?"

"What? Have lunch at a diner?"

"Everything! Go to the movies...buy the clothes you want...travel when you feel like it..."

Frank was no fool. He could read between the lines and realized what it was Sunny was asking:

She thought Frank was free.

To an extent, he supposed he was, but it certainly hadn't felt like freedom. Divorcing Grace had freed him from specific obligations, yes...but then again, it was divorce. He answered to no one but himself. No one bitched at him to make his bed so he didn't; he cooked his own meals so if he fancied a turd sandwich it was always on the menu. It was the sort of liberation men across the world dreamt of: Going to bed alone, waking up alone, watching TV alone, going out alone, coming home to no one, never needing to check your phone and forgetting the sound of your own voice. And clinging to meaningless co-worker relationships in the event something panned out.

"It didn't feel like it does now," he said, deciding to cut right to the chase. "It wasn't freedom...it was an under-toe. Or one of those whirling circus rides where everyone's hurling and you're in the back." He finally met Sunny's gaze, finding it melancholy. "It only seems like paradise for you because you had people breathing down your neck all the time. I wouldn't have minded that so much."

"You would if they kept you all shackled up with their dogma," she replied bitterly. "Sharing your life with people is only rewarding if they give you a life to share."

"I guess I can't argue with that."

About that time the waitress came to collect their order. Frank pounced on the chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes he'd been fantasizing about for months and Sunny put in for a short stack and hash browns.

"And how does it feel now?" she asked as she drizzled syrup across her pancakes.

He understood what she meant and returned the knowing grin stretching across her mouth.

"Feels like the life I signed up for."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have more scenes written, but they have to be, I guess, connected to the rest of the story, as there are bits missing. As I said, positive reviews and comments will encourage me to work faster. On the Wattpad version, there is a soundtrack posted. Thanks for keeping with it!


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